


Above the Ashes

by victorianvirgil



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Anal, Anal Fingering, Angst, Gay Sex, Gore, Graphic depictions of violence and gore, Hurt/Comfort, Killing, M/M, Murder, Prinxiety - Freeform, Sex, Sex In A Cave, The Hunger Games AU, also remus won the first quarter quell (25th) so he’s not in this games, and virgil is from 7, and with ballad of songbirds and snakes coming out i had to, and yes i don’t kill all of them, been waiting to do this for a hot sec nglll, betrayal tho, janus is from 2, logan is from 3, patton is from 4, rip your faves, roman is from district 1, shit is accurate af if you ask me, surprisingly not a lot of hunger, they are both eighteen tho so not minors!!!, we have our one (1) victor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorianvirgil/pseuds/victorianvirgil
Summary: After years of waiting, Roman Ayer is finally able to volunteer and compete in the Hunger Games. Although his entire family have partaken and emerged victorious before him, his motivation lies not with glory but with a boy he loves more than life itself. But when Virgil is also Reaped for the twenty-sixth Games, Roman must decide whose heart he will defend with his sword—Virgil’s or his own.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 45
Kudos: 71





	1. Caught in the Crossfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman believed that he had everything figured out but, unfortunately, the stars had other things in mind.

The reaping always took place just short of a month before Roman’s birthday and when he volunteered, he knew that there was a chance that he could be dead before then. The Games never lasted that long―a week in preparation and then two at most for the slaughter itself―so the only way Roman could live to see nineteen would be to become Panem’s twenty-sixth victor of the annual Hunger Games.

Dying wasn’t an option, of course it wasn’t, so he would have win. And for that reason, he trained hard, learned his way around the sharp steel of a blade and had a cutting edge unmatched by any of his opponents. No one worked as hard or for as long as he did and he finished each day of training with a few mile run for good measure.

After so many years, the mayor’s son was a familiar sight to the people of District 1 just before they all disappeared for dinner, hardly even batting an eye as Roman wove through the crowd and broke away from the glimmering city. Up ahead was the high-voltage fence encompassing and protecting them all from a wild thicket teeming with animals so wicked, that even God didn’t have a name for them. Running alongside it, Roman’s footsteps fell in time to the rhythmic hum and he allowed for his gaze to wander past the trees, clearly searching for something.

Someone.

He wasn’t supposed to want to slip beneath the pulsing current and allow his fingertips to softly brush the untouched bark, glance upon his district―his home―the way an animal out of Hell might. To finally caress the moonlight skin that graced his dreams, look upon the eyes and ax that shone silver in the sun without the fence between them.

“A bit late for you to be this far from the castle, isn’t it, little prince?” Virgil smirked, taking a hesitant step out into the sunlight. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

“Training ran later than usual, not much time left to prepare,” Roman replied, coming to a stop and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “And if spending a little less time with you now means I can spend the rest of my life with you later . . . well, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

One of Virgil’s rare laughs escaped from him then, shaking his head as he let his ax slip from the tight grip of his palm in favor of reaching into his back pocket and revealing a flower that had bloomed into a soft blush. “For you.”

They had no way to pass it through the fence, but seeing the flower was enough to make Roman smile. “Tuck it behind your ear.”

“Not a chance, I have a reputation to uphold,” Virgil chuckled in response, neither surprised when he did as Roman requested anyway and walked closer to the fence until there were only inches and a thousand volts of electricity between them. It took all of Roman’s strength not to reach out to touch him. Craved it more than anything in the world.

As one of the mayor’s sons, Roman had met people from different districts before, whether they be victors on their tour, fishermen trading their haul for jewelry, or the kids from Districts 2 and 4 he biannually sparred with. But never anyone like Virgil, a poor boy from District 7 who lived in the trees and dared Roman to break away from the protection of the Capitol. To be free.

“I’m going to win, you know.”

“I know,” Virgil nodded, and of course he knew. No one trained with his diligence or thoroughness and while most of the tributes only fought for their lives, Roman would fight for his life with Virgil. “You’re a survivor,” he added after a moment, eyes averting to his boots and Roman wanted to reach out, tilt his chin up and make the other look at him again. After years of seeing him every single day, partaking in the Hunger Games would mean a month without Virgil, without his reason to volunteer in the first place.

His mother, now the mayor, had been Panem’s first victor, his father the third, and his twin brother crowned victorious after the first Quarter Quell, but Roman’s want over the years had evolved from the chance to prove himself like his family members before him to the need to win over the Capitol so he could marry the love of his life. There was no other way for them., but it was Virgil’s last reaping―he would be nineteen next winter―so the odds _were_ in their favor, even if for most, falling in love was as fatal a wound as any. But Roman knew that they would be unscathed if all went according to plan.

Before either could say another word, shouting from deep in the thicket directly followed by deafening gunshots ensnared their ears. Roman recoiled, hand instinctively moving to his hip to draw a sword that wasn’t there while Virgil, who most certainly had personal experience with guns’ wrath, flinched. Silver eyes rose to meet green. “Run, my prince,” he entreated, dropping to his knees to grab his ax. The flower fell from behind his ear like an angel from heaven. “It’s only a matter of time before they reach the fence, and you can’t make a victor out of an avox.”

He was gone before Roman could respond, his protests dying on his lips as the angry voices grew closer and the rustling in the trees louder. He knew Virgil was right and turned on his heel to run before the Peacekeepers could find him loitering. It was only when he was behind his locked bedroom door did he stop, pressing his back against the wall and placing an open hand on his chest to feel his reassuring heartbeat. Alive, he was alive.

For now.

-

Virgil visited him in his dreams that night, as he often did.

Beautiful, he was so fucking beautiful that Roman spent the entirety of it gripping the fence, body convulsing and contorting as he was fried from the inside out. But he couldn’t let go, no, he had to get to Virgil, and it took hours of pure torture before he retracted his hands, wrapping his arms around his knees and sobbing into the earth. A hand brushed against his shoulder then and Roman just barely had the strength to turn his head.

The ax was stained red, clotted-blood dripping from the sharp tip as his lips curled up into a terrifying grin. In the night sky behind him, Roman could just make out the projection of his very own face displayed in the stars for all of the tributes in the arena and for all of Panem to see. And then Virgil shifted the ax so he was gripping it with two hands―the weight probably familiar after years now―before raising it over his head, agony in his eyes.

Roman awoke with a jolt just as the cannon sounded, gasping for air before the real world embraced him with open arms. Below, the streets were already filled with people cheering, the parade underway. Normally, Roman would be among them, but not today, not on this particular eighth of May.

Reaping Day, _his_ Reaping Day.

His father made him a sizable breakfast, warm chocolate chip pancakes topped with whipped cream and banana slices. Scrambled eggs were a fluffy, soft yellow by the side, but he only took a few bites before placing the plate on Remus’ bureau on the other side of the room. 

District 1 had produced four victors in twenty-five years―Roman’s parents, Remus, and a twenty-something year-old beautiful enough to marry her way into the Capitol. So aside from their house, the Victor’s Village was empty. Technically both Remus and their father owned their own houses, but when the Capitol first decided to reserve a section of each district to the Capitol’s champions after the tenth Games, the young couple thought it best to have just the one home for their two three-year-old boys.

Remus could have moved out since then but sometime over the past year, Roman’s twin had developed a fear of the dark. He couldn’t stand to be alone.

Pulling on a pair of sweats and running shoes, Roman watched Remus’ eyes race behind his closed eyelids, deciding that he needed to go on a jog to clear his head.

Businesses were closed for the day, the District given a break from work and allowed to sleep in for once. The Reaping wasn’t until twelve-thirty in the afternoon and Virgil had once mentioned that instead of celebrating and playing into the Capitol’s hands, to District 7, it was a day of mourning.

“There’s no pride in playing their games,” he said, laying down on the opposing side of the fence with his eyes on the clear-blue sky. The wind blew strands of his dark hair into his face and Roman craved to brush it away, tuck it behind his ear. Instead, he plucked a few blades of grass and let the current take them. “They pit the districts against one another for their amusement and make us blame each other for killing their children. But really, who is the killer? The children fighting for their lives or is it _them?_ The ones forcing us to kill?”

“Trees have ears,” Roman cautioned, turning his head to the side and studying the other’s unreadable expression. They were too close to the district lines to discuss such matters, especially knowing what happened to the raging renegades of District 13 only a quarter of a century ago.

There were only twelve districts now, something he reminded Virgil of then.

“Frankly, Princey,” he sighed, turning so he was facing Roman and resting his cheek against the grass, “I don’t give a damn.”

They grinned at one another then, neither ever filled with more love for anyone then in their entire eighteen years.

Roman passed their spot then, heart hammering in his chest as he quickly glanced at the void spaces they had occupied only yesterday. The pink spring flower was still there, alive and only inches from the fence. A beat to consider before Roman grabbed a twig and carefully maneuvered it between the fence in order to shift the bud to his side. Once in his hand, the petals lulled the pit in his stomach―making it bearable.

Almost harmlessly smiling up at him, the flower evoked thoughts of Virgil and calmed Roman down, reminding him why he was partaking in this whole ordeal to begin with. It wasn’t for fame and fortune, at least not anymore.

It was for him, for them, and an otherwise impossible future that could never, ever be a reality.

He continued running, showering as soon as he got home and pulling on the clothes his mother left out for him. A part of the preparation process every year, his parents left early and allowed for their sons to sleep in. Different than years prior, neither had slept soundly this year and now, a sleep-deprived Remus watched as Roman regarded the white, silk button-up and burgundy dress pants in their floor-length mirror.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Ro?” his brother croaked out, still in an oversized sweatshirt and boxers. His tone of voice struck Roman as odd and he looked his twin in the eyes through the reflection. “I just mean . . . it wasn’t a choice for us, you know? Mom and Dad were both reaped and I was voted in-”

“This is what I want, Remus.”

His twin merely shook his head. “Is it? Really? I know you like the idea of the world knowing your name but-”

“It’s not that,” Roman interrupted, turning as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. “It’s to see my hard work pay off.”

“But there are other ways to do that, ways that don’t involve killing people,” countered Remus, pulling himself up into a sitting position while hugging his pillow close to his chest.

A pause, Roman raising a brow, “That’s kind of the point, Reem.”

Remus huffed in turn, fingernails digging into his pillow as he lowered and shook his head, “Right . . . right, this is what you’ve been training for.”

“You trained with me!”

“But it’s different actually being _in_ the Games! Being the last one left and having to live with everything you’ve done,” he tried to explain, throwing his pillow back onto the head of the bed and collapsing against it once more. A deep breath before he dared continued, “I care about you, and I don’t want you to turn out like me.”

Scoffing at the other’s words, Roman snarled, “You just think I’m going to lose, that’s it.”

“No, but I think you’re an idiot for risking it.”

Roman slammed the door on his brother, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. Natural light shone through the window into the hallway, warming Roman after such a cool, discouraging encounter. His eyes flickered towards one of the picture frames hanging on the wall, his twin brother in an emerald green three-piece suit with a golden crown across his brow, victory shining like pearls in his smile.

There was an empty frame hanging beside Remus’ and any of Roman’s doubt vanished from his mind. Victory was expected of him―inevitable, really. So he wouldn’t lose, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he would win.

Half-past one and Remus joined him in the kitchen, waiting until the other finished his glass of water and placed it in the sink before opening the front door. They walked to the square in silence, Roman knowing he’d see his twin again and feeling almost offended by the other’s worrying.

“I have to go,” he murmured as Roman fell in line to be fingerprinted and accounted for. There was no missing the Reaping, not that anyone in District 1 felt the need to. Over the past fifteen years, efforts have been made to better involve the districts and the Capitol in the Games. Not only were the people required to watch, but winning directly resulted in a victor’s district to be showered in gifts, an opportunity to be adored by the Capitol, and a guarantee for all of Panem to know their name.

Times were different than they had been for his mother and father, and even now their rebellious pasts were quenched in order to take pride in their tributes, especially the volunteers, and their Capitol who treated them like celebrities.

The only victor in District 7 was addicted to morphling, Roman chuckling at the thought of how during last year’s television showing, he had barely been able to keep his eyes open as the tributes were called to the stage. Tributes from Seven never lasted long, probably a bit of that attributed to their mentor, and during the twenty-fourth Hunger Games, Virgil mumbled something about wishing them a quick, painless deaths rather than enduring hypothermia, pain, torture, or hunger.

Today, Virgil, like Roman, was standing with the other eighteens at the front of the group. Thin ropes separated them from the rest of their district, herding them in like cattle for slaughter.

Roman wasn’t sure how much he agreed with that last bit, but he always let Virgil talk about whatever he pleased.

“How many times did you put your name in for tessera this year?” Roman had asked only a week before. Although Roman was to be District 1’s tribute, his name was only entered seven times. Virgil’s name was entered twenty-one times to support him and his beagle that lived in the woods together.

After that, there was no need for oil and bread, not when he was living off Roman’s spoils—never having to worry again.

The odds were in their favor, he told himself again and again, they were.

As the square began to fill, Roman felt more pairs of eyes settling on him. On the stage seated behind the two large glass bowls was his entire family, and he was just short of an hour away from joining them. Front and center stood District 1’s esteemed escort, attire clearly inspired by the Capitol’s latest fashion.

“Happy Hunger Games!” he began, orange eyelashes long and heavy, making him blink more than what should’ve been average. “And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!”

From behind him, Remus was moving his lips in time, used to the routine after a lifetime of it. Although he was sitting upright with his shoulders back, Roman could just see how red his eyes were, how stiff he was. He knew his twin better than anyone, he knew how uncomfortable he was.

Remus met his eyes during the video about the war and the Capitol prevailing. For as long as he could remember, it was the same one, as reliable as the Games itself, and he wondered if it quenched any sparks of rebellion in other districts.

Possibly, at least he assumed so from the sad, defeated look in Virgil’s eyes whenever they spoke of the Games.

The escort―Roman never bothered to learn his name―was slipping his hand into the bowl, forearm disappearing before surfacing once more with a colorless slip. Slowly, he opened it, eyes flickering over the name printed in dark ink.

“Candela Fardrop.”

“I volunteer!”

In place of a bony little thing emerged Valerie Cutler, brown hair sleek and falling down her spine in a tumble of curls. She was strong, had sparred with Roman on quite a few occasions, and after stepping onto the stage, her marvelous smile surely made the audience sigh in adoration.

A round of applause for the new tribute before the escort was reaching into the boys’ bowl. A moment of hesitation before, “Merlin Nightlock.”

The crowd parted around Roman before he could even volunteer, smirking as he strode up to the stage. He had talked strategy with his parents before, he knew what he needed to do to win sponsors over immediately. And he planned to do just that.

“Ah, so it _is_ your year then, Roman Ayer!” the man nearly squealed in excitement, Valerie giving him a nod in respect and for luck before he returned his attention back to the crowd.

District 1 cheered for them as the anthem began to play, Peacekeepers summoned at the final note to guide the tributes into the Justice Building. They settled once Roman and Valerie’s backs were turned as if realizing it may be the last time they would see one or both of their tributes, the square quieted and the pit in Roman’s stomach growing.

A few friends and his aunt visited him, the rest convinced that he would return and they could congratulate him then. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he was retrieved and found his way onto the train. It would be a short ride to the Capitol, but the train was still lavishly decorated and if not for the opportunity to eat while watching the Reapings of other districts, he would have considered taking a nap.

His mother squeezed his shoulder and motioned for him to sit on a soft, leather couch, his father already talking strategy with Valerie at a dining table.

“We were one of the last Reapings of the day?” he asked her as an avox slid a lemonade-ice tea into his hand. He began to sip on it, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head because despite living a life of luxury, he had never had anything like it before.

“Yes, just before Five and Four,” his mother nodded, reaching for the television remote and tuning into one of hundreds of channels broadcasting the day’s events. Despite the Reapings being broadcasted live from east to west coast starting with Twelve and ending with Four, the replay went in ascending district order, starting off with Valerie and Roman, beautiful and strong like the jewels District 1 was known for.

Next came the girl from Two looking fierce as anything and the boy even more so, golden eyes swimming with mischievousness Roman knew meant that he shouldn’t be trusted―not that any of them really could. Career packs were temporary arrangements after all, established until the weak links and any other threats were picked off. He knew better than to get attached.

District 3 was what he expected, two wiry, malnourished tributes that wouldn’t make it far. But it was then that the cameraman zoomed in on the boy’s face, intelligent blue eyes peering through a pair of spectacles and challenging any notions of underestimating him. Roman shifted.

“A threat?” his mother asked and he tilted his head back onto the couch to look at her. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was drumming the fingers of her right hand against her left bicep.

“Surely worth trying to make an alliance with, seems more of a loner than anything, though,” he replied with a sigh, glancing at Valerie. Her kind eyes were focused on the screen, assessing each and every tribute that popped up, even after Four’s Reaping and everyone called up was young, weak, or a mixture of the two.

District 7 flashed onto the screen and Roman’s heart skipped a beat. Virgil. God. Virgil must be nervous for him even if he had no reason to be. So far, all of the competitors, excluding the boy from Two, looked manageable. Elementary, even.

The girl was more of the same, shy and sobbing by the time she made it to the stage with her thin legs nearly giving out beneath her. Her face was red when she dropped her hands and it pulled at Roman’s heartstrings. He felt for this girl but he knew the audience wouldn’t, not that she would make it past the bloodbath in order for sponsors to even consider her.

Roman would make her death quick and painless, he swore it on his life.

Adorned in a highlighter yellow, the Capitol-born escort stuck her arm deep into the glass bowl of boys' names. Like District 1’s escort, she dragged it out, knowing that the richest of Panem attended with anxious eyes and ears.

She pulled out the single slip of paper, Roman closing his eyes and exhaling softly. Dark ink spelt out the name of his next competitor, one of twenty-three he’d have to kill.

“Virgil Ashvale.”

Eyes open, breath gone, and vision dark as if he had fallen into a bottomless abyss, the pit in his stomach a black hole consuming him and everything he knew. His mother was speaking but he couldn’t hear her, failing to comprehend whatever comment she had about his body type or possible hidden skills based on the way he walked with his head up and wing-like shoulders back. A graceful dove flying towards death.

The Capitol’s high-definition camera caught every curve on his face, the reflection of the sun in his eyes, the way his beautiful, beautiful fucking lips moved to shape a sentence he had never said before. At least not to Roman.

_I love you._

Famous last words.

-

Fortunately the train ride was over before either Valerie or his parents sensed that something was amiss, the train station already flooded with fans eager to get a first authentic glimpse of their tributes. He gave them their show, allowing Peacekeepers to take control and lead him towards the tower at the heart of the Training Center. An elevator lifted them up to the first floor, Roman would have preferred to take stairs he could throw himself down.

His prep team and stylists’ names were gone from his mind as soon as they introduced themselves to him, an overzealous bunch that he didn’t have the energy for. Hopefully they attributed it to nerves.

After a long shower―at least a quarter of that time spent trying to figure out what all the buttons did―Roman lay naked on his soft bed until he was called for dinner, forcing himself into a pair of slacks and a cashmere sweater. Bare feet padded against the wooden flooring before he slid into the last seat at the dining table, ceramic plate empty and waiting for him to ask the avox standing behind him for anything he wished.

“Not hungry,” he shook his head when his father looked his way, refusing to meet his mother’s eyes as he forced himself to stay hydrated and drink water. Dying before the Games didn’t help him or Virgil now. “I have a question though.”

“We’re here to help you with anything you need.”

“What is standard protocol for alliances?”

Valerie was chewing on lamb stew, gaze flickering between the two victors and their son.

“Well,” Roman’s father began, bringing his napkin up to his lips and dabbing at the corner of his mouth. “There is nothing official, really. What we call ‘formal’ alliance requests are hardly even that because they aren’t permanent. Everything just goes through us mentors because we know our tributes best and can help with strategies. Why? Anyone you were looking at?”

“Eden and Janus from Two; Patton and Alyss from Four,” Valerie suggested without hesitation. “I know they probably went without saying, but can’t be too careful.”

“No, you can’t,” Roman’s mother nodded in agreement, shifting to the right as the dark-haired avox leaned over her left shoulder to pull her lobster apart. “How about the boy from Nine? Largest I’ve ever seen from that district.”

“Doubt he’d make a trustworthy alliance, probably would think that he’ll be turned against first,” his father argued before directing to Roman. “So get him out of the way first, he’ll probably survive the bloodbath but after, he should be your first target.”

Continuing, Roman’s mother added, “He’ll use up sponsors’ funding that we would rather give either of you, and I think we’ll all sleep a little better knowing he was out of the way and One might have another victor this year.”

For Virgil’s sake, he hoped not, instead just smiling weakly. “What about the kid from Seven?”

“What about him?”

A shrug, feeling a bead of sweat slip down the underside of his arm. “Nothing, just thinking out loud.”

“Looked a little scrawny to me,” Valerie confessed, “I don’t think we should bother, he won’t last very long.”

Roman’s mother chose her words carefully before speaking, “Well, Valerie, no one should be written off completely.”

“Not even the tributes from Twelve,” his father added before pushing away from the table. He rustled Roman’s hair before heading to his quarters, Valerie following suit without another word and leaving mother and son alone.

“Virgil Ashvale, isn’t it?” she voiced after a moment, green eyes, so much like the ones she passed on to her children, daring him to look up. But he couldn’t, all of his strength gone.

“Yes,” Roman replied, exhaustion clear in his words. “He’s . . . I don’t know, there’s something about him.”

She nodded, considering his words. Then her gaze lifted above his head, swallowing hard as one of the avoxes silently passed by. A reminder of what it meant to defy the Capitol.

Morbidly, Roman had always wondered if they could scream without their tongues.

“Most of the tributes haven’t arrived yet and movement is extremely restricted now, but I’ve always wanted to show you the roof. There’s a beautiful rose garden and a surprisingly wonderful view of the stars. I can . . . if Ashvale happens to be there at the same time, well, we can only hope that the two of you don’t throttle one another, I suppose.”

She knew.

Roman wasn’t sure how, but she did. Maybe he had been too obvious, sixteen years old and spending all of his time by the fence despite her protests. Helplessly falling for his star-crossed lover and not caring who knew.

Squeezing her hand in thanks and pressing a kiss to her cheek, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the ‘R’ button with a shaking extended index finger.

The two hour trip to the Capitol must have only taken only an hour or so longer for Virgil and his female counterpart, so Roman knew that he was here. Just a few floors above, his lover was probably left in awe by the Capitol despite his fear, anger, and despair, despite being caught in the crossfire of the war between his predecessors and the Capitol.

Despite almost certain death.

A light rain fell onto the gravel roof, the bright glow of the Capitol making each and every drop glimmer like diamonds plunging to an early end. He was soaked in minutes but hardly noticed, wandering through the sizable rose garden and trying to keep busy as he waited for Virgil.

Time passed slowly and what must have only been ten minutes seemed to stretch on for hours. Roman pricked his thumb on a thorn after picking up a plum-pigmented rose, the blood sliding down the deep green stem like rain before a throat cleared from only a few feet away.

Virgil.

The winds died down as they faced one another for the first time without a single boundary driving them apart. There was no fence anticipating a missed step and ready to send a thousand volts of electricity through their veins, no Peacekeepers in the woods or in the city patrolling and pursuing any signs of rebellion.

Roman’s feet carried him over to Virgil, stopping just before as if by habit. Lips parted slightly as if to speak but they quickly closed because, really, what was there to say?

Thousands, there were thousands of things Roman had been planning to say the day that he finally, _finally_ got to hold Virgil in his arms for the first time. He had made a list at one point to brainstorm, even showing it to the other and watching him laugh at its ridiculousness. A few puns, sexual innuendos, and cliches that at the time he thought were clever then but didn’t fit the moment, not at all.

Hell, he wouldn’t have been able to get the words out if he tried.

“I know,” Virgil breathed, swallowing hard as he hesitantly reached out to Roman with a shaking hand—breaths hitching as one when skin brushed skin and he cupped Roman’s cheek. They fell against one another immediately, Virgil barely able to support the two of them as Roman buried his face into his shoulder and sobbed.

Brushing his lips against Roman’s temple in a way that only hours before had been a perfect dream, Virgil tried to comfort his lover as best he could, gripping the back of his neck as if he would never let go. “I know, Roman . . . I know.”

Roman sobbed harder, clutching Virgil tighter, and shakily lifting his head. Through the rain and tears, it was hard to see anything, but then he was kissing Virgil and nothing else mattered.

It wasn’t perfect, far from it with all the fear and anger that had been steaming inside them since the Reaping. But there was love, so much love and longing and rejoicing that it nearly obliterated all their resentment for their situation.

Virgil smelt like cedar and tasted like vanilla ice cream; Roman didn’t have the words to express the way he felt for him, like it was something that didn’t exist for anyone but them.

“The odds . . . they weren’t in our favor this year, were they?” Roman whispered against his lips, Virgil releasing a melancholy laugh in response.

“No,” he sighed, leaning his forehead against Roman’s and letting his eyes close, “they weren’t.”

The rain continued pounding around them, rich men, women, and children screaming in the streets beneath their umbrellas as they waited to see them, along with twenty-two other children, fight to the death.

And Roman’s eyes stayed open, desperately studying Virgil’s features while knowing that in a month’s time, he would be packed into a tight mahogany coffin and never able to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> so i’ve been wanting to write this for ages now but finally have had the time to! thg was one of the first series i fell in love with, making me adore reading even more and starting to even write a bit! (granted, this was in 4th grade and i TOTALLY missed the political messages that are so apparent they can hardly even be considered “underlying”)
> 
> but i hope you guys are excited to go on this journey with me! i will be adhering to the canon as much as possible so, of course, There Can Only Be One
> 
> ...unless
> 
> thanks for reading & until next time,  
> ronnie


	2. Born and Bred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In preparation for the Games, Roman trains with the other Careers and awaits an inevitable end.

At noon the next day, Roman’s prep team dragged him out of bed and shoved cinnamon-apple waffles down his throat before shuttling him to the Remake Center. Valerie and the other female tributes were a few hours into the beautification process, the Career tributes from wealthier districts finishing well before the rest.

Valerie’s striking-red nails were drying as her team curled her hair, eyebrows recently plucked and a natural-looking blush dusting her cheeks. She smirked as Roman passed, whistling as he was situated in the station across from hers and stripped bare.

“My eyes are up here, Cutler.”

She grinned, making a show out of covering her eyes with a hand before parting her fingers to see through them. Roman laughed in turn―the only joyful sound in the melancholy chamber―and their prep teams swooned at the banter, seeming to momentarily forget that only one of them had the chance to make it out alive.

Following Roman’s lead in varying levels of misery were the other male tributes, his artificial smile for the people of the Capitol dying as soon as he met Virgil’s eyes. They were a somber and sorrowful silver, glittering like the precious metal that was their namesake. Looking away before anyone else could notice, Virgil was led to a grooming station out of Roman’s field of vision. Out of sight but never out of mind, and not even the hour-long bath he was given could relax him enough to think of anyone else―of anything but Virgil lying motionless on the earth with blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

After his nails were clipped, hair cut and styled to appear more masculine, and his skin was soft from the lotions his prep team lathered over his limbs and face, he was sent to his stylist for final touches―to be turned from a beautiful boy to a promising tribute that would, without a doubt, be crowned this Games’ victor.

The ruby-red loveseat he was escorted to and the meal placed before him―chicken and orange slices swimming in a creamy sauce lounging like angels on pearly white grain, honey-colored pudding for dessert―did little to quell his anxieties. His stylist was finalizing her design, needle and fingers working as one to clean up the golden swirls racing down the length of each pant leg. As she worked, he picked at the plate before him, finally giving into hunger and deciding to make every single one of his last meals count.

“A lot of thought went into this design,” she hummed, waiting until she was finished before turning and giving Roman a full view of the mannequin and the fabric draping off it. The cape seemed to tumble off the square shoulders like water off a steep cliff, seamless waves appearing careless but so thought out that Roman knew that his mother had had a hand in its creation.

“It seems so,” Roman nodded, swallowing his last bit of chicken before standing and striding to his stylist’s side, brushing the pure-white fabric with a hesitant, delicate touch. He had never seen, let alone worn, anything so beautiful in his life, the three piece suit a pristine and perfect white that, once he put it on, made him look like a young, fallen god.

A green tassel hung from each side of the cape’s opening, the exact shade of Roman’s eyes, and furthered the notion that it had been fashioned for him and him alone. Two golden shoes with a bit of a heel completed the look as well as his family’s gold ring that, moments later, his stylist produced from her pocket and slipped onto his right hand. Just last year, his father’s ring had been in Remus’ possession as he prepared to be sent into the Games. A tradition now of sorts.

“Does it fit?”

Her words stirred him from his thoughts and fortunately yanked him back into the here and now, conjuring up a smile as he studied the simple golden band. “Perfectly.”

With a nod in acknowledgement, she motioned for Roman to follow her back through the door he had entered from so a pair of heavily-armed Peacekeepers could whisk them down to the bottom of the Remake Center. Twenty-four empty stalls made up a stable with seven stalls per wall and a grandiose opening leading towards twelve chariots equidistant from one another. A few well-placed torches expelled the darkness but there was still a shadowy, bleakness to the cavern that couldn’t be ignored.

“Roman,” a mellifluous song floated through the air and he turned, breath leaving him at the sight of the slender and supple figure standing only a few feet away. Without seeming to be in control of his movements, Roman’s eyes dipped down past the band of leaves woven into an autumnal carcanet to the bare plains of Virgil’s chest and lower-abdomen. A muted pair of spandex compression shorts extended down to his mid-thigh, leaving the rest of his lower-half bare. A crown of fire rested above his dark brow, enriching his features.

He was beautiful, so fucking beautiful that Roman could hardly look at him.

But just over Virgil’s shoulder was Janus, his temporary ally who he knew better than to give a single advantage to―not if he wanted to protect Virgil, at least. So instead of running into his lover’s embrace like he craved to do once more, he offered a simple nod before walking past him, unable to help brushing the back of his hand with his own. Sparks shot through his veins, prickling his skin and knocking the breath right from his lungs.

He managed to hold himself together as he stopped before Janus, an easy smirk across the other tribute’s lips as Roman approached. “I’ll admit, your stylist certainly set the bar high for the rest of us, how can we compete with you and Valerie glittering like gold? And the first out the door, nonetheless.”

“You flatter me,” Roman chuckled in response, seeing Virgil move in his peripheral vision towards his mentor and the other District 7 tribute wearing a complimentary dress. “Besides, that ensemble of yours is dastardly. It’ll be interesting to see what the crowd thinks of us.”

In his dark suit that looked like fabric night, Janus smirked, nodding towards his fellow tribute from Two before snakelike eyes returned to Roman’s. “Hopefully highly, if not for either you or I, at least because of the beautiful Valerie who may just have the rest of us beat.”

A bit to their left, Valerie stood besides Roman’s mother in a breathtaking golden gown hugging her curves tightly. A slit placed high in the fabric revealed one of her muscular, long legs and a single golden heel. With her hair tied back into an elaborate bun leaving two curled pieces on each side framing her face, Roman couldn’t exactly disagree. “Good luck, then.”

“To you as well, Roman Ayer. May the odds be ever in your favor,” Janus returned with ease, striding to the black chariot led by a pair of horses with matching caramel coats. Just behind Two’s chariot was Three’s, the two tributes looking stiff in black jumpsuits with yellow lightning bolts painted down their limbs matching the horses waiting for the signal to trot through the Capitol’s crowd-lined streets.

It was only after the shirtless boy from Four smiled at him―making a show out of swaying his hips and flaunting the way his maritime-blue pants resembled the waves from his home—did Roman decide that he had socialized enough with the others, letting his stylist position him in the chariot with Valerie placed to his right side.

The horses, painted a sparkly gold, took off without much warning, perfectly trained and needing no assistance from either Roman or an equestrian. Like him, Valerie quickly recovered from the shock, lips spreading into a gorgeous grin as she waved at the adoring fans. Roman was sure to make eye contact with as many men and women as possible, winking at a few and trying to solidify sponsors.

The longer he stayed alive, after all, the more likely he was to assure Virgil’s victory.

Twilight twinked out as they wove through the streets, music and screams surely deafening Roman with every inch they moved forward. Giant screens displayed his image with pride, progressing to Two’s chariot, then to Three’s, to Four’s, and so on. When Six surrendered the screen to the succeeding district, Roman found himself captivated by the two figures led by the forest green mares. One figure in particular.

And as if knowing that Roman was looking at him, Virgil appeared to be looking straight at him through the screen, a promising air around him that he knew others couldn’t look away from either.

“Eyes on the prize, lover boy,” Valerie whispered through a laugh, turning her head to meet Roman’s eyes with amusement in them. “She’s not even that pretty.”

No, but the boy next to her most certainly was.

They finished the procession at the City Circle, the twelve chariots filling the space in front of the President’s mansion as the leader of Panem stared down at them from the balcony. As the national anthem played, a sadistic smile spreads across a pair of unsympathetic lips. Roman turned his head and found Virgil staring right at him, thoughts clear in his silver eyes.

_Lined up for slaughter, symbolic of how our districts are only meant to sustain and entertain the Capitol._

The cameras caught a glimpse of every tribute as their horses led them around the City Circle for a final time, disappearing into the Training Center where they would remain until hovercrafts brought them to the newest arena and, inevitably, to certain death.

-

Training the next morning began at ten o’clock sharp, but Roman and Valerie were sent down fifteen minutes before then. The elevator ride was short, the pair only needing to travel down two floors to reach the windowless gymnasium that, Roman remembered from an off-hand comment by his father years ago, was below ground.

Only a few tributes had arrived, nervously standing in a circle and staring with intimidation pooling in their eyes at the head trainer drumming her fingers against her bicep in anticipation. Valerie’s smile brightened and she joined the girl from Two, Roman following behind her and standing besides Janus―stood across from Virgil.

With yesterday’s ceremony lasting as long as it had, another rendezvous on the roof had simply not been a possibility―not even with Roman’s mother willing to head the scheming. But there was something like hurt and confusion in his eyes, taking a step forward to approach him but, as subtly as possible, Roman shook his head.

He wasn’t expecting to see the other’s face darken with anger in response.

Before Roman could apologize, it was gone, and Janus was studying Virgil with interest. The last thing he wanted. “What do you think of the Training Center?” he asked, Janus slowly peeling his eyes away from District Seven’s most-promising contender and glancing around at the various stations.

“A bit better than what we had in Two, I guess.”

The rest of the tributes filtered in and when the last two arrived, the trainer began the tour of the facility and introduced trainers. Roman found himself trailing at the back of the group, the emaciated and otherwise undersized tributes from the outer districts scurrying around him to anxiously take in as much as possible. There wasn’t a chance for them and surely they knew that, but Roman could admire their effort.

Moments later, Virgil was by his side, voice low and clearly annoyed, “So, you’ve decided to save yourself, have you now?”

Roman had to force down a laugh, forcing his eyes to take in the room around him and not to appear suspicious, “You’re an idiot if you think I’m not doing everything I can to keep your ass alive, Seven.”

“By ignoring me? Shouldn’t I be joining your little group of friends?” he hissed back, but when Roman met his eyes, there was no anger, not at all. Only pain. “So we can protect each other until-”

“It won’t work like that, they’ll kill you.”

The trainer motioned for the group to split up, encouraging them all to try new things and become more versatile for the arena, bettering their chances of survival. Virgil took that as a chance to get the final word. “They’ll kill me anyway, and if they don’t, you will. You’re a survivor, remember?”

Roman didn’t sleep well that night, his father forcing him out of bed the next day for another overly-expensive breakfast and the second training session.

Following Janus’ lead, the Careers decided to spend their time wielding their weapons of choice, intimidating the competition and establishing their dominance among those who believed for even a moment that they would survive the first night, let alone the first week. They all seemed to cower, too scared to even look at the stations where the tributes from One, Two, and Four were.

All except the boy from District 3―who seemed perfectly content in his learning of different types of plants―and Virgil. The latter was working with a trainer at the knots station, the rope quivering and submitting to the lean, skillful fingers leading it in an elaborate dance. When he looked up and caught Roman watching him, he raised a brow.

An offer and a challenge to join him, the only true ally and friend he had in the Games.

“Is he causing you any problems, One?” a disembodied voice called from behind him, Roman turning to see the girl from Two, Eden, staring at the two of them intently.

Technically, yes. If he hadn’t been reaped, Roman would have been able to focus on himself and his survival, in making it out in order to start a life with Virgil upon his return. Now, he was forced to come to terms with either his or his lover’s inevitable death while doing all he can to keep them both alive for as long as he possibly could. Instead, he said, “No. I don’t think he’s a threat or anything worth our time.”

Eden nodded before motioning for Roman to join her at the sword station, the pair admiring different blades with enthusiasm. “Has there ever been a rapier in the arena?” she asked the trainer as she picked up the thin blade, turning it in her hand and grinning as it caught the light.

“Once or twice―daggers, long swords, and sais are more common.”

Just in view, Janus nearly took out a trainer’s kneecaps by swinging around a pair of nunchucks with deadly precision. Behind him, Valerie was touching up her archery skills with a silver bow in her hand and a sheath of arrows strung over her shoulder. She wasn’t a bad shot either.

“If I use it in my private session tomorrow, is it more likely to be placed in the arena?” Roman just heard Eden say, hardly listening as he bit the inside of his cheek and found the boy from Nine easily pin a trainer down―then proceeding to do it again with a hand behind his back.

“We’re going for him first, right?” Not Eden that time.

Patton Agnor, the boy from Four who was practically a guaranteed ally, was soon by Roman’s side, the top of his head hardly even reaching his shoulder. Glancing down at a head full of beachy curls, Patton sensed the look and raised sea-blue eyes his way. He was young in terms of volunteering, just recently having turned sixteen, and for the life of him, Roman hadn’t the faintest reason why he would volunteer other than the fact that he had a death wish.

“We can talk it over during lunch but, yeah, I think Nine should go first.”

Seeming to think they had come to some sort of agreement, he offered Roman a friendly smile as he twirled one of his knives and in a flash, had propelled it towards the moving dummy circling the arena and waiting to be touched. So far, no one had been able to hit it, but Patton landed a death blow between the brows.

Virgil met his eyes again, shaking his head a bit before returning to the knot before him and tying and untying it faster than Roman could ever hope to achieve.

The third day was more of the same except that during lunch, the tributes, starting with Valerie, were called for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. She handed the rest of her piece of bread to Alyss from Four, regret clear in her eyes and the rest of the Career pack laughed in amusement. Losing a bit of bread was hardly the end of the world for them anyway, not when they hadn’t gone a single meal without food in their whole lives, especially not now in the Capitol when everything was not only accessible to them, but they are able to get it even quicker than before.

After about fifteen minutes, Roman was called next, clasping a hand on Patton’s shoulder and looking confident as he strode out of the room. He had paid little mind to the Gamemakers before, aware that they were always passively watching as they talked among themselves about final twists for the arena and commenting on certain tributes’ skills, but there had been more important matters to think about. Now without anyone else to watch or think about, there was no ignoring the twenty-or-so pairs of eyes sizing him up. The Head Gamemaker was among them, smirking as if he knew something Roman didn’t. “Roman Ayer, you have ten minutes, please begin when you are ready.”

Knowing that, without a doubt, he’d get a high score, he went straight to the blades, swinging them with nearly nineteen years of experience. His footwork was flawless, light on his feet despite his height and weight, but every strike was hard and lethal. Unlike the past few days of training with the others, he didn’t hold back at all now, fighting like his life depended on it.

He finished with lifting some weights, sitting at one end of the gymnasium and managing to pull a hundred fifty pound weight across the room. Leaving the weight and thick chain where it was when he finished, Roman rose to his feet and walked back to the middle, sending an appreciative and respectable salute once he was dismissed.

Valerie and his parents were waiting for him in the living area of their room, the former fresh from a shower with her dark hair wrapped up in a towel to naturally dry. “How did you do?”

“Well, I think,” Roman yawned, rubbing the back of his neck before directing to his mother, “so . . . we have a break until the interviews?”

“Hardly,” the escort said from his position draped against the couch. “Tomorrow, young Ayer, will be your coaching on proper etiquette and strategy. We must make every second count!”

There was a pause between nearly every word, pitch as high as the rest of the people at the Capitol and jaw barely opening as he spoke. Like the richest in One sometimes attempted to mimic, the ends of their sentences went up as if asking questions, words clipped and always hissing on the letter _s._

“Busy indeed,” Roman agreed, forcing himself to stay composed and not roll his eyes. Making enemies wasn’t how he was going to win the Games, he knew as much. “I think I’m going to go up to the roof to relax a bit until the scores are announced, then.”

An avox walked by almost unnoticed by the others but Roman froze, the boy’s dark hair all-too familiar and, no, it wasn’t possible. Virgil was still waiting in the dining room for his private session with the Gamemakers, he couldn’t have been-

“I think you shoulder shower first, Ro,” his father said, but Roman only comprehended the words after the avox turned to reveal soft brown eyes and a long nose that didn’t quite fit his face. Not Virgil, no, the Capitol wouldn’t turn a tribute into an avox with only a few days left until the Games started.

“Okay,” he nodded without thinking, surprised to have made it all the way to his shower before his legs buckled out from beneath him, the warm water comforting as, once again, hot, angry tears streamed down his cheeks. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, there was supposed to be a life for him after this, for them together.

Hell, he would drown himself in this shower again and again if it meant Virgil had even a day more to live. He would end a thousand lives in a moment, twenty-two others at least, and then lie still as Virgil lined the sharp side of his ax against his neck before lifting with both hands and taking a heavy swing.

An hour or two passed before Roman was able to pull himself to his feet, quickly lathering soap on his skin and turning the water off before wrapping a towel around his waist. The closet, already pre-programmed with his sizes and style, picked him out a cotton button up with a mockingjay print, dark blue pants and white sandals to match.

Virgil was already on the roof, dark purple tank top loose and the front tucked into the band of his black sweatpants. Black hair was slick with sweat, a few strands that fell to the right side of his face decidedly sticking to his forehead. Without a word, his gaze returned once again to the bustling city stories below and lifetimes away.

“Hey,” Roman cautiously whispered, stepping out of the elevator and letting it sink back down. Then he was sitting next to Virgil, palms behind him and pressed into the unforgiving gravel. Silent until Roman tried again, “Virge, I-”

“Don’t want to hear it,” the other interrupted, dark eyes locked on the ant-sized citizens that could just barely be seen over the edge. “I get it, Roman, I do. Love and loyalties don’t extend to the Games-”

But Roman didn’t let him finish, a finger curled under his chin and turning Virgil’s head so their lips were aligned in a simple, perfect harmony. When they broke apart, neither blinked as Roman said, “I always thought you were the smart one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A smile spread across Roman’s lips as he kissed Virgil again, basking in the glow of the sun and in the ability to touch him after years of dreaming of it, of praying for it. Hell, Virgil was the first boy he had ever touched this way, ever wanted to touch this way, and Roman knew that his time to do so, at least with him, was limited. “I’m going to keep them away from you. We’ll kill the boy from Nine and all you have to do is live until I kill the rest of the Careers.”

“But wouldn’t we be stronger together, you, me, and Logan?” Virgil argued tiredly, lowering himself onto his back and pulling Roman down with him, resting his head on Roman’s shoulder.

“Logan?”

“Kid from Three, now _he’s_ the smart one.”

Unable to help it, a prideful smile spread across his lips. “Making friends already?”

“What? You’re not the only one that knows how to keep himself alive,” Virgil shrugged, lips brushing against Roman’s jaw and feeling the other shutter beneath his touch. “Besides, he might pull a decent score from his private session.”

A seven out of twelve, Roman momentarily considered, the arm pinned beneath Virgil’s form shifting so he could run his fingers through the other’s hair. “Won’t he just be plotting our deaths the entire time? Build up our trust until he figures that he’s better off alone?”

“Aren’t Janus and the others?’ Virgil countered to which Roman had no response to. “And I feel safer with him than your lot. The girl from Four would probably choke me in my sleep with her whip.”

“I think you allying with Three is a good move,” Roman started and Virgil pulled away, knowing the rest.

“But you won’t leave the Careers for me, right?” Virgil finished for him, shaking his head in disappointment but sighing. “I know I can’t change your mind . . . so I just hope that the last time I see you won’t be at the Cornucopia.”

-

Time flowed at a different rate without Virgil, his constant, there for reference, no longer able to measure minutes with comforting kisses, hours with tender touches or, seconds with radiant grins. Eight hours split between his parents for content and strategy and the escort, whose name was Terrence, for etiquette flashed before his eyes, hardly retaining a thing and then suddenly the day was gone, replaced with one filled with prepping and finished with his stylist fitting him into a crimson suit. A stark contrast to the white from the Opening Ceremony, but it made sense for him. He was no innocent little lamb, not at all.

A deadly devil, straight out of a long-forgotten Hell.

“You look so incredibly handsome,” his stylist said, brushing a bit of hair out of his eyes as she smiled up at him. He had no connection to her at all, felt ambivalent at best, but he mustered up an award-winning smile and she melted, patting the side of his face before guiding him to where the others were lined up―all waiting to take the stage, and the crowd, by storm.

The tributes from Nine and Five were already there, the male from the grain district with his shoulder against the wall and arms crossed over his barrel chest. He was clearly the largest of them all, standing well over six feet and weighing twenty pounds more than Roman, at least sixty more than a bony and agile boy like Virgil. Their eyes met and Nine offered a nod in acknowledgement and what could have been luck.

Roman didn’t humor the thought very long, keeping his distance because although he hadn’t volunteered, he’d do everything he could to survive, just like the rest of them.

Soon enough, the remaining nineteen tributes joined them, filing into order by ascending district order with the girl preceding the boy from her same district. Valerie pressed a kiss to his cheek, her pink lipstick staining his skin, and Roman laughed, playfully tugging at her hair when she turned and waited for the signal to begin the televised interviews.

Lucretius Flickerman, who went by Lucky, sat on a comfortable white chair at the center of the stage, smiling brightly with his olive-green hair slicked straight up and tied with a matching bow in the back. Snow-white powder caked his cheeks and forehead, horrific and beautiful all at once. His voice boomed through the set as he told jokes and introduced Valerie, the first of twenty-four to have three minutes to sell herself. A final stand.

The buzzer sounded and Roman took a deep breath, centering himself. Flickerman was working his way into a proper transition and he found his lips subconsciously unfurling into a smile. This was the whole reason he was here, born and bred to sweep Panem off their feet. And even now, even though he was doing it all for Virgil, he would convince the world that he would win.

Roman settled in the now-empty seat like a king would his throne, back pressing against the soft leather cushioning behind him. Luxurious and something he may never experience again.

“So . . . Roman Ayer, what to even talk about first?” he began, Roman responding with a charming smile evoking some feminine whistles from the crowd. “You’re a spitting image of your brother, I feel like I’m with him again!”

“Well you have a good eye, Lucky. Remus _is,_ in fact, my twin,” Roman chirped back, encouraged by the light-hearted laugh from the infinite sea of seats stretching out before him.

“And a perfect mesh between your parents!” Flickerman continued. “Which is why, I think, a lot of us expect you to make it far.”

“Well that goes without question,” Roman confirmed to the pleasure of the attending audience. From One, he wondered what Remus was thinking of all this.

“Certainly! Especially after scoring that ten in your private training session! Could you give us a little insight into why?”

A perfect segue, one that Roman latched onto with ease, “Afraid not, I’m sworn to secrecy.” Playful booing from the front row and Roman laughed, “What? You’ll see it tomorrow, anyway. Excited?”

They liked that and Lucky was saying something into the microphone about how if Roman won, they better not let him steal his job to which he countered with, “Oh please, you’re just paranoid. No one but a Flickerman could do what you do!” before the buzzer went off.

“Well that’s all we have time for with District 1’s Roman Ayer! Best of luck to you, my boy.”

Shuttled over to Valerie in an empty section of seat reserved for the tributes, Roman let his mind and eyes wander, paying little attention to the girls and boys that followed his lead―all with different strategies. Eden and Janus were intimidating, Logan from Three was smart and knew it, and Patton from Four was beautiful and friendly.

The world stopped when Virgil Ashvale stepped onto the stage, a dark gray suit fitting over his long limbs and torso. Beautiful, so damn beautiful that Roman knew his pulse was throbbing in his wrist, momentarily wondering if anyone could hear it above the adoring, ever-enthusiastic audience.

Three minutes stretched on into infinity, and Lucky was asking Virgil about his family and discussing his dog. _A good girl,_ he smiled sadly, _I plan to see her soon._

And he would, Roman would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys,
> 
> i had to do a roman ayer worthy workout to get into the mindset to write! however, it consumed my day and that’s why i’m posting today instead of yesterday whoops
> 
> but hope you guys enjoyed! the support has been unreal and i’m so happy that you’re all just as invested as i am!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


	3. Friend or Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twenty-sixth annual Hunger Games begins at last.

_“Let the twenty-sixth annual Hunger Games begin!”_

Roman shot up with a jolt, surprised to have gotten even a few hours of sleep before he was shepherded to the deadly arena that would be his grave.

His stylist was standing at the door, motioning for Roman to follow her. Final preparations would be done in the catacomb-like tunnels beneath the arena, and not even fifteen minutes passed before the windows of the hovercraft went dark, the bright light from the outside world smothered like the light of a candle being blown out.

His pulse pounded in his wrist like it was trying to break through the skin.

Within the next half-hour, Roman was standing in the Launch Room with loose, gray-tinted camouflage pants clinging to his hips by a black belt. The rest of his clothing also left no hints on the makeup of the arena―the short sleeves of his thin, black cotton tee and the oversized, brown leather jacket suggesting a temperate terrain, but it was likely that the climate could go to either extreme.

All he really knew was that the smooth, lace-up black boots that rose a few inches above his ankles were perfect for running and would protect him from blisters as he hunted the other tributes with his sword in hand.

“I’ll see you soon,” his stylist smiled at him as he stepped onto the metal circular plate with faux-confidence. As it rose, Roman noticed that, ten feet above him, metal gave way to reveal an endless sky of gray. Soon enough, his stylist, in her pink glory, was gone, and so was every other sign of civilization along with her.

What looked like to be the only color in the whole otherwise-monochromatic arena was contained in an area with a diameter of about one hundred yards. The grass circling the golden Cornucopia was a vivid green that put even Roman’s eyes to shame, and the babbling brook cut a stark, oblique line of pure sapphire through the viridescent vegetation and snaked up to the right towards a gray mountain range. He could only guess what evil lurked at the heart, making a note to steer the Careers as far away from it if possible.

Behind him was an eerily-still sea, charred driftwood scattered across the gray shoreline with bits of it swaying in the miniscule waves of the surf. From the few times he had visited District 4, Roman knew that the faint scent of iodine rolling off the waves and carrying through the wind was not normal.

Far from it.

Both Patton, standing on a similar platform three tributes to Roman’s left, and Alyss, standing four to his right, seemed to notice as well, making eye contact with one another before letting their gazes wander to assess their situation in full. Roman knew he should do the same.

There were fifty-five seconds of the countdown left, after all.

To his immediate left and right were the boy from Eight, Thomas something, and the girl from Six. Eden was between Thomas and Patton, smirking and bouncing on the soles of her feet to stay agile. Ready to run into the heart of battle. Directly across from her, and only just visible from the other side of the Cornucopia, was Valerie, a simple, sleek ponytail swinging like a thick rope as she studied her surroundings.

Neither Janus nor Virgil were anywhere to be found, probably obscured by the tail of horn. Roman hoped that his lover would be smart and run to the field bordering the sea, live off the land and keep a low profile so the Gamemakers wouldn’t bother him with whatever horrific mutation they designed to torture the tributes. Last year, Remus had almost been eaten by a swarm of ancient amphibians that died along with the rest of North America but were recreated by the Capitol and mutated to be covered from snout to tail in large, sharp teeth.

That particular canine croc had had teeth sticking out of its eyes and tongue, the latter showcased in high definition as it screamed in agony. One of the other tributes had tripped and the croc pounced, Panem watching as teeth dislodged from the skin and buried itself deep into his body until he was paralyzed and could be easily pulled back into the swamp.

Thirty seconds left.

Most of Roman’s adversaries were shaking like leaves on their pedestals, one boy even falling to his knees when the wind blew and the thin layer of ash that coated the desolate land outside of the thriving ring of green blew into Roman’s eyes and mouth. Tasting of death.

Twenty seconds left before the beginning of the end for twenty-three children.

People in the Capitol were betting on him, rich men and women who admired his strength and charm, who noted the work he had put in over the years to shape his body into that of a champion. They would do all they could to keep him alive, send him any damn thing he needed so that they could profit. Because to them, the lives of the people in the districts were disposable, the Hunger Games nothing more than a means to entertain and a way to make money. Roman knew that now, the fact hitting him then like an ax to the back of the head, but it was too late, far too late.

Ten seconds before Roman either became a killer or was slaughtered by one.

He became suddenly aware of his physical position, bouncing on the balls of his feet in order to be able to rush into the mouth of the Cornucopia and come out with a large, sharp sword. No better than a canine croc or any other Capitol-created mutation, just another pawn. Never before in his life had he felt more like a piece of the system, an inevitable corpse standing above the ashes and waiting to be buried beneath them for viewers’ entertainment.

The gong sounded, and the bloodbath began, Roman acting on instinct and running like his life depended on it.

Faster than the others, Roman was the first to reach the Cornucopia, grabbing a longsword and a dagger before turning. The sight in front of him would haunt him every night until the day he died―no matter how long it took for that last day to come―eyes widening as the boy from Nine snapped Alyss’ neck, the girl from District 12 lying face-down in the river in his wake. Further to the right, Valerie released two knives from her grip, both impaling two tributes between the brows with lethal accuracy.

But there was no time to admire her work as the girl from Six tripped over her feet with a backpack strung over her shoulder, an easy first target. Roman was on her before he knew it, decapitating her with a quick, strong swipe and taking the pack before the blood could spoil the contents inside. Racing by was Thomas, the boy from Eight, who had made a surprising run into the Cornucopia for a sleeping bag and was being chased down by Eden. She was gaining, but seeing as he was right there, Roman took two steps and thrusted with his dagger, a gasp escaping from the young boy’s lips as he tried to continue to run.

It had been a direct hit, though, the blade slipping right between the gaps in his ribcage and rupturing his heart. He was dead in seconds.

Eden playfully glared at Roman before scanning the immediate area, pointing towards the other side of the Cornucopia where tributes were running without much interference. The boy from District 10 killed Leslie from Eleven before Janus swung his warhammer into his skull, leaving a hideous concave in the once-soft skin. A sadistic smile was across his lips and blood pounded in Roman’s ears, knowing that during the countdown, Janus hadn’t had the same realization of how cruel the Games were. He was still here to win and put on a show.

“Come on,” Valerie said, stirring Roman from his thoughts and motioning for the others to follow her to the Cornucopia. Cannons hadn’t been fired but as they rounded the walls of the golden structure, Roman quietly counted nine corpses. The only death he hadn’t seen first hand had been the girl from Logan’s district, two gaping holes where her eyes had once been with identical tear-like slashes running down both sides of her face. A quick look around and Roman noticed that Patton’s twin sais were still dripping with blood.

The twenty-sixth Hunger Games had finally begun, the fact that four out of the five of them were now killers proving just that.

Inside the Cornucopia, Eden marveled at the array of swords and Janus picked up a blowtorch, a deadly fire glowing in his golden hues. Patton and Valerie split the throwing knives among themselves, but Roman’s eyes stopped at the sight of a sleek, silver ax. It looked light, probably meant to be thrown with one hand, but as sharp as anything. Unable to stop himself, he picked it up, testing the weight in his hands before tossing it into a pack with the metal handle sticking out at the top.

A gift for Virgil when―not if but when―he saw him again. To prove his loyalty, to increase the chances of his lover becoming this year’s victor.

“Ro,” Patton mumbled, getting the other’s attention before motioning to the inner wall of the Cornucopia. “Look.”

In a beautiful cursive scrawl written on a singular line that appeared to wrap around the entire inside of the Cornucopia were the words to the national anthem.

_Gem of Panem, Mighty city, Through the ages you shine anew. We humble kneel To your ideal, And pledge our love to you._

_“Gem of Panem, Heart of Justice, Wisdom crowns your marble brow,”_ Roman read aloud, _“You give us light. You reunite. To you we make our vow.”_

His words echoed off the walls like an eerie chorus and as his eyes followed the text, he caught sight of a well-placed camera in the topmost corner, a red light signalling that it was filming this scene. A reminder of what his reality had become.

Eden didn’t bother to sing either, but her voice was soft as she spoke the penultimate and final stanzas: _“Gem of Panem, Seat of power, Strength in peacetime, shield in strife. Protect our land With armored hand, Our Capitol, our life.”_

“Nothing like a bit of murder to start feeling a bit nationalistic, huh?” Janus mused, testing a double-sided ax with a deadly swing before deciding it would be worth it to carry around. Roman was sure he didn’t want to know what it would feel like to be on the other end of a blow like that.

“Do you think all the arenas before ours had this on the inside of their Cornucopias?” Patton contemplated. “But why have I never heard anything about it before?”

“Maybe because it’s not important,” Janus quipped, battle ax thrown over his shoulder as he walked out into the dull mid-morning light. He pointed towards the mountain range before saying, “Come on, let’s hurry up here and clear out so the Gamemakers can clean up our little mess right here.”

“You’re right, I bet a lot of the survivors ran to that rubble over there,” Valerie reasoned, referring instead to their left. House-sized pieces of eroded rock made the area look like a maze, and Roman knew that at least a few of the tributes had felt a fake sense of comfort at the thought of being a part of the partial coverage.

Eden clicked her tongue, pulling herself to her feet and adjusting the straps of her backpack over her shoulder, “I have a better feeling about the mountains, honestly.”

“The rubble’s our best bet,” Roman argued, lips pursed as he looked between the tributes from Two. Used to higher elevation, Roman wasn’t surprised that the pair were drawn to it. The mountains meant safety to them, especially since the Capitol had been funneling money and resources into a base placed at the heart of the district for twenty-six years now. “Patton?”

“I just know we should avoid the sea,” he remarked, thoughtfully biting the inside of his cheek as he looked around the arena. “I think everywhere we go is going to be dangerous, that’s the point, but I like our chances more out in the open. Someone might have snagged a bow, but I doubt anyone besides us actually knows how to shoot. So I vote the fields that way.”

The four other Careers stared blankly at him as if wondering if they should just kill him now.

“Fine, the rubble then,” Patton conceded, leading the way with Valerie close behind. Roman did a final sweep of the Cornucopia, rolling his eyes at the sight of the letter _C_ painted onto the floor as if it wasn’t already obvious what the building was. They had all been watching the Hunger Games their entire lives, especially since viewing had become mandatory sixteen years ago, so it seemed silly.

He caught up with the others pretty quickly, walking a few feet behind Janus and reaching into his pack to nibble on a bag of trail mix. The world around him was bleak and aside from the area surrounding the Cornucopia, it looked like there would be very few opportunities to get food. The turkeys roaming in the rubble up ahead were probably Capitol mutations that should be avoided at all costs, and there were no other signs of life. No berry-filled bushes or fruit-bearing trees like previous years.

They were on their own.

While Roman was wondering if some tributes would eventually grow so hungry that they would return to the Cornucopia and try eating the grass, his allies started rounding a cement circle with the number _1_ painted in the center. The edges were scraped but it was still clearly recognizable, and Roman wondered if it had been intentionally created that way or if it had deteriorated under rain―although the scratch marks had probably been left by something much more animated than a storm.

“Do you think-”

“No,” Janus interrupted with a huff in irritation, “I don’t think it means anything.”

Patton immediately shut his mouth, Roman noting the way his grip tightened on one of his sais.

“It’s probably just a random line, not sure why it’s here,” Eden agreed and Valerie, walking by her side, nodded. Roman didn’t feel the need to make an enemy out of the majority and kept his mouth shut, following the others but keeping his sword drawn. Maybe it was nothing more than a means for the architects of the arena to keep track of areas they had designed, but maybe it was much, much worse than that.

With the Cornucopia out of sight, hovercrafts shot into vision overhead and raced through the sky. Almost simultaneously, the first cannon was fired, shaking the earth beneath them.

“That’s ten,” Patton remarked when it was done. “Funny, I only counted nine.”

“Probably the guy from Nine getting another weakling out of our way,” Janus waved off, “we’ll see tonight.”

Don’t let it be Virgil, God, don’t let it be Virgil.

They broke off into groups of two, Janus deciding to go alone, to search for tributes among the rubble, but the girls were the only one to find someone, a cannon firing and the group meeting back at the Cornucopia.

“Boy from Six or something, practically begged us to kill him,” Valerie grinned victoriously, lifting up a silver coin so old that Roman had never seen anything like it. His token, one that Roman’s well-trained eyes knew would sell for a lot of money. “Clutching this in his final moments like a good luck charm, at least it was quick, poor thing.”

She flipped the coin in amusement and it landed face-first on the soft grass, tail end pointed skywards with a worn-down bouquet of flowers and torch barely visible. “I wasn’t sure why he brought it, but this is kind of fun. We can guess what side it’ll land on.”

As Valerie picked it up again, Roman noted how dried blood already stained the face of the man in the coin and he couldn’t help but wonder if his district partner and the others around him should be considered a friend or foe, if they could be trusted. They were all murderers now, Eden claiming the boy from Six as hers.

But Roman was no better than them, a killer who couldn’t be trusted and was only loyal to Virgil. He was like them in more ways than he cared to admit, which was why he knew to be cautious, to be smarter than to ever let his guard down. Because they were among the top contenders to win, and no decent person ever wins the Hunger Games.

Virgil would be the exception, Roman knew it in his soul.

The next few hours were uneventful, the Career pack talking among one another and establishing the Cornucopia as their base. They learned that the river flowing from the mountains and emptying into the ocean was poisoned, contaminated by one thing or another, and the nameless girl the boy from Nine had killed might have just tripped into it and after being unable to move, drowned. Every tribute except for Logan and the male from Nine had died and Roman was glad that he had been given a much clearer shot at the Cornucopia. What a waste it would’ve been to spend his entire adolescence and teenage years training only to die in such a trivial way.

His pride wouldn’t have been able to take it and somehow, he would’ve found a way to die again out of embarrassment.

The anthem began and Roman froze, glancing towards the interior of the Cornucopia before looking up towards the dark sky. Although the clouds were unmoving, the images of each of the dead tributes was projected into the sky just as it had the year before. A new addition and because it had been so helpful, the Gamemakers seemed to have included it again. First was the girl from Three, then Alyss, the boy from Five, both from Six, the girl from Seven.

Roman held his breath but the next face projected into the sky was Thomas’ followed by his female counterpart. A few feet away, Janus seemed to be noticing the same thing.

The instrumental version of the anthem ended after the images of the boys from Ten and Eleven and the girl from District 12 flashed in the sky, the world swallowed by darkness once more. Eleven were already dead on the first day, Roman one of the thirteen that still remained. For how long, he hadn’t the slightest, but he gave himself a little less than two weeks at the most.

“I’ll take first watch,” Roman offered, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the way his mind was racing anyway. The others didn’t argue, settling into sleeping bags inside the Cornucopia and drifting off pretty quickly. Only Patton tossed in his sleep, probably missing whatever soft mattress he was used to.

Virgil had probably gone in search of trees, already used to sleeping high in their branches. From his occasional round circling their base, he hadn’t seen any trees in the distance. There were cities of rubble on either side of the river, the ocean and flat plains, and the mountains. Occasionally, a turkey or two would journey close to the lush circle surrounding the Cornucopia, but they never dared to come closer and in the dark, Roman couldn’t see whether or not they had teeth or metal wings or whatever horrific mutation the Capitol could think of.

A couple hours passed with nothing to show for it and Roman woke Eden, the dark-skinned girl’s eyes opening instantly and hand reaching for her sword. Before she could stab him, she realized where she was and quickly sat up, brushing stray strands of her thick hair out of her face. “Sorry,” she apologized, not sounding sorry as she rose to her feet and bundled up her sleeping bag. “I’m going to camp out on the roof, help me up?”

Without much of a choice, Roman laced his fingers and let her step onto the surface on his hands, propelling her up and throwing her rolled-up sleeping bag up so she would be comfortable. “Can get down quickly if you need to?” Roman asked through a yawn, rolling his shoulders back and cracking his neck to prevent his body from becoming too tight.

“All set, get some sleep, One,” she said and Roman agreed that it was for the best, settling near the front of the Cornucopia and unraveling his own sleeping bag. Valerie had said earlier that there were probably only five or six in total, and as the temperature drastically dropped, they had been lucky to end up with the majority of them. Comfortable and warm, Roman surprisingly didn’t have a problem with drifting off, the happy light of a future he could have had replacing the world’s natural darkness. In his dream, there was Virgil by their fence, one of his rare smiles across his lips as he welcomed his lover home. But he was standing on the District 1 side of the fence, and Roman was able to run right into his arms, was able to kiss him again without fearing that it would be the last time.

-

The second day came and went with Roman receiving seven pieces of bread from a sponsor being the most eventful thing that happened.

“Odd, why not one for each of us?” Patton wondered, tilting his head back and looking up to the sky as if he would receive an answer.

“Probably one for each tribute we killed,” Eden suggested and that was enough for them, Roman willing to share with his allies before they decided to break off into groups. Janus stayed at the base while the girls explored the area near the mountains and Patton joined Roman in searching the fields for tributes or another source of food. For something.

There wasn’t a single name in the sky that night and Roman could only hope that something mildly interesting had happened somewhere in the arena to keep the viewers excited so the Gamemakers wouldn’t be tempted to play God and throw something their way. Or maybe time was the same for the outside world as it was for them and because no one was watching, the Head Gamemaker, Dr. Volumina Gaul’s successor, would wait until sunrise before springing any of his surprises. Either way, Roman knew that sleeping was the best thing he could do for himself, relieved to find himself back in his utopian world where Virgil hadn’t been reaped and he won the Games―Roman getting his own house in District 1’s Victor’s Village and sleeping next to Virgil, his fiancé, every night.

Of course he awoke from his dream to find the already grim world in an even worse state than it had been before.

“Wake up, wake up!” Valerie was shouting, kicking Janus and Eden in the torso before they were both on their feet, backpacks swung over their shoulders and weapons in hand. “It’s coming, fuck, get up!”

Roman was quicker to gather his bearings than Patton, eyes already starting to adjust to the dark and it took only a few moments to be able to distinguish what the threat was.

Blinking rapidly, Roman hoped that he was still dreaming.

The giant crustacean roared and Roman’s teeth chattered in consequence, a choked-sob escaping from his throat as he gripped his sword and slashed at one of the creature’s many legs, gray smoke steaming from the wound where blood instead should have gushed out. Roman didn’t stay to watch the fog rise, sprinting towards the rubble he had explored the day before, heels nearly kicking his ass as he pushed himself farther, arms pumping until he caught up with Valerie and Eden. Janus was trailing behind them, a heavy battle ax weighing him down but all considering, he was still making good time.

“There!” Valerie shouted, out of breath but Roman looked to where she was pointing and saw a slender limb slip behind a wall that looked like it had once been a living room. Another tribute.

The other Careers followed her lead, Roman soon slipping ahead and not bothering to wait for the others. Whoever this was, they were both smart enough to sick the sea demon on them and fast enough to escape unscathed, and Roman wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so he could go back to sweet dreams where there were no Games. Where there was only Virgil.

The tribute wove between the destroyed houses, leaving footprints in the ashes that were easy enough to follow. They went beyond the circle with the number one in the middle and stopped only when the other Careers were out of ear shot, Roman just about to jump over the broken bit of fence when he stopped.

Running through the army of soulless stumps were two figures, one tall and lean with other defining features obscured by the dark, but the other’s silhouette was one he knew by heart.

Virgil was running away from him and as Roman moved to jump the fence, he screamed in agony, body convulsing as an electrical current shot through his veins. His vision went black and when they opened, Virgil was standing above him, agony in his eyes. The dream from the day before the Reaping came back to him and Roman’s breath caught in his throat, wondering if it would be his last.

“Get up, please don’t be dead,” Virgil was murmuring, shaking Roman fiercely before his gaze lifted and with a pained look tried pulling his lover to his feet. When that didn’t work, the boy from Seven swallowed hard, pressing a gentle kiss to Roman’s knuckles and saying a quick, “Stay alive for me, princey,” before taking off.

A cannon sounded and Roman’s world went black.

-

Fortunately, the cannon hadn’t been for him and Roman woke again after a few hours, his allies having carried him back to the Cornucopia. Neither Patton nor the giant crayfish creature―”a fucking fog crawler, the shit out of nightmares,” Janus complained―were nowhere to be found.

Roman wanted to ask what had happened since he passed out, how much he had missed, but instead of a comprehensible sentence, he merely groaned.

Three heads turned his way, Valerie smiling sadly and Janus rolling his eyes as if Roman living was the most inconvenient thing in his life. “If you slept any longer, we were going to slit your throat.”

“Janus,” Eden chastised, smacking her district partner in the arm, but Roman didn’t doubt it was true. “We would have at least waited a full day.”

“Wouldn’t have blamed you,” Roman nodded in understanding, “glad it didn’t come to that.”

“Me too, especially because you must’ve been the only one to see who that tribute was.”

Looking Valerie’s way, Roman tried to figure out what she meant. There had been two, after all, Virgil and whoever his ally was, probably Logan. Did they not know?

“I saw the guy from Three,” he said decidedly, leaving no room for a debate.

“Logan Fairfall,” Valerie nodded, eyes narrowing before letting her gaze wander as if she would find him nearby. “He’s smart, scored a Seven if you remember, and it certainly wouldn’t have been for his strength.”

The others nodded in agreement and Roman rose onto his elbows, body more weak than ever. “I’m guessing we look for him, then?”

“Probably, then we go after Nine,” Eden agreed. The rest of the plan was unspoken, but after their two biggest threats were gone, it would be time to turn on each other. As if knowing what Roman was thinking, she then added, “But not yet, we have to wait for you to get stronger.”

“I think we’ve waited enough,” Janus argued, “we should keep hunting, get rid of the stragglers.”

“Our numbers are low without Patton, it’d be better to wait for Roman to heal,” Valerie countered. Oblivious Roman had known that the cannon hadn’t been for him when he woke up with his heart still beating in his chest, but he hadn’t known that it had been for Patton. From the fog crawler that Logan and Virgil had led over, the same that very much could have killed him.

Before Roman could grow angry, a sense of calm washed over him. Virgil hadn’t been trying to kill _him_ after all, having damn-near risked his life to make sure that Roman hadn’t been electrocuted. Besides, despite Patton being relatively young, he was far too good with throwing knives for his own good―and they weren’t even his weapon of choice. Eden bore the sais now on her belt, the blades cleaned and if the sun had been out, they might have even sparkled.

“Fine,” Janus yielded, picking up his double-sided ax, “we’ll hunt at dawn. Until then, I’m going to kill some of these goddamn turkeys for food.”

He stormed off before Roman could advise the other against it, and seeing his look, Eden said gently, “Don’t worry, they’re just turkeys. I don’t know why, but there’s nothing strange about them. They taste fine and sure, their feathers are a little dull, but as far as I know . . . they’re just turkeys.”

Strange indeed, in the apocalyptic arena with monsters lurking in every corner, he wondered how the turkeys had been able to survive.

That night, Roman waited until the others were asleep before gathering his belongings. There were painkillers, a bottle to purify water, bits of beef jerky, a few handful of trail mix, and the ax he would give Virgil in his backpack, keeping his sword in its sheath and his dagger in belt to be able to hold two sleeping bags―his, and the one that used to belong to Patton. His former allies didn’t need it, but his new ones most certainly did.

And just as he was expecting, Virgil was waiting for him by the fence, standing among the stumps while Roman stood on the other side with the deteriorated town behind him. “Virgil.”

“Glad to see you alive, Ro.”

“No thanks to you,” Roman replied halfheartedly.

Instead of firing back with hatred the way Roman was sure he would, Virgil just sighed. “I’m sorry, there was no way to warn you and when it started to chase after us, Logan ran towards you guys so the fog crawler would go for one of you instead.”

“It’s okay, Virge,” Roman reassured him, taking a moment to just study the other before he remembered the ax. “Oh! I forgot.”

“You always do,” Virgil mused as Roman swung his pack around and unzippered it to pull the ax out.

“For you,” he said, just as the other had a week later.

Despite the darkness of the world around them, Roman swore that the light of Virgil’s smile was blinding. “Don’t tell me you want me to tuck it behind my ear now, do you?” he teased, referring to the flower.

“Oh shut up,” Roman laughed, taking a step towards the fence but freezing just before it. He knew that Logan had rigged it and there must be a certain way to get through without being electrocuted. Seeing this, Virgil stepped forward and moved towards the natural gaps where the fence was still standing.

“You have to go this way, the rest are rigged with some sort of forcefield. I have no idea how Logan did it, but I don't ask questions I won’t understand the answer to. Like how he knew the arena was like Panem.”

Roman was just about to slip under the fence when he stopped, staring at Virgil like he was a giant cretaceous creature from hell.

“So he claims, at least,” Virgil shrugged. “I mean, I didn’t get it at least until we came here and I looked at you on the other side of the fence.”

That’s why he had been drawn to the rubble and his District 2 allies to the mountains. Why the anthem was inscribed inside the Cornucopia and the _C_ had been painted on the floor. Not for Cornucopia, no, but for the Capitol.

“And this . . . this is Panem, then,” Roman realized, eyes widening as he turned for more signs to confirm this.

“At a smaller scale, but yes,” a foreign voice confirmed but before Roman could unsheathe his sword, Logan slipped into sight. His glasses were crooked and it seemed as if he had used cloth to tie the two sides of it together, but he looked respectable nonetheless. “This, Roman Ashvale, would be Panem if the districts went to war with the Capitol again; if we dared to rebel.”

A world destroyed, sky dark and only the glorious Capitol remaining intact.

The day’s anthem began to play and the word’s came easy to Roman as Patton’s image was shown on the screen for the entirety of the song.

_Gem of Panem,_

_Mighty city,_

_Through the ages you shine anew._

_We humble kneel_

_To your ideal,_

_And pledge our love to you._

Rustling from behind and when Roman turned, all he saw was Janus’ eyes full of rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys,
> 
> sorry i haven’t posted i was depressed & i have really bad poetry to prove it !!
> 
> but in actuality i had a lot of fun writing this! when i actually sat down to do it i was like fuck, i miss them. so what do i do? i kill patton. f my son.
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed! i’m going to be working a lot now but i will be trying to post this sunday because i have a day off! no promises but i want to have the epilogue done by this time next week so i can post the first chapter of the avatar the last airbender au on the summer solstice which is the 20th!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


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